My Baby Decision

Greene with her husband, Adam, and their two children, Emma and Taylor. (Photo: Ben Hoffman)

“I Had a Baby on the Way at 19”by Amy Greene

I grew up in a small community in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, about 70 miles north of Knoxville, Tennessee, the nearest real city. I lived in a house my grandfather built, and as a child I paced along the creek bank behind our house, making up stories in my head to the sound of muddy water trickling over stones. School was my first real exposure to life outside hay fields and shade trees. I learned from more fortunate classmates that scuffed shoes and secondhand clothes weren’t good enough. When I thought of all that our family couldn’t afford, I sometimes resented my mother’s choice to marry at 18, considering she’d been valedictorian of her class with a scholarship to the University of Tennessee. Our lives would have been different, better, if she had taken the scholarship and made a career for herself. Instead, I watched as she worked pulling tobacco. This, to me, didn’t seem like success.

Most of the girls I grew up with had no plans to get out of town. Some were already pregnant and married before graduation, working in restaurants and factories. I prided myself on being different, a black sheep who read and wrote and dreamed.

Then I met Adam. I was a sophomore and he was a senior. He had auburn hair and moss-color eyes, and a smile that lit up his whole face. It seemed as if we had known each other forever. He had an old Mustang convertible, and we rode with the top down into the hills, between tobacco fields and rustling cornstalks. We climbed to the top of the big hill behind my house and looked down on the valley spread out below. Falling in love with Adam was like falling in love with home all over again.

When I was 18, we decided to get married. With the money I was given as a graduation gift, I bought a wedding dress. I found it on sale in a dusty shop downtown, but it was perfect. I had always considered myself a rebel, and yet there I was, doing what was expected of all girls in the Mountains. We got married in August, when the fields surrounding the church were high with goldenrod and purpled with heather.

Right away I learned that the path I had chosen was not an easy one. I didn’t comprehend until we were on our own how much it would take just to keep the lights on. Then I became pregnant at only 19, the same age my mother had been. I was unprepared for the fear I felt, and the sense of shame. I wondered what people thought of me when they saw my swollen belly. I noticed how the doctor looked at me during my first appointment, with something like pity. My face burned as I sat there on the examining table, wishing I could make him understand that inside I was the same black sheep. After my son was born, sometimes I felt as if I had lost myself, so immersed in the tasks of mothering and keeping house that I didn’t have much time anymore to dream and read and write.

It was my mother who helped me to find myself again. We had long talks during our nights up rocking the baby together. I asked whether she was afraid when she got married and pregnant so young. She told me how she worried after my brother was born that she’d never get the hang of motherhood. She admitted to sometimes wishing she’d gone to college and become a teacher. She also said nothing mattered more to her than having a family. She didn’t follow tradition by marrying young: She followed her heart. Until then, I had assumed that the reason she hadn’t protested when I got married in my teens was that that’s how things are done where we come from. But the truth is, she let me make my own choice.

Adam and I now have two children. I stopped being ashamed of my story long ago. I love where I am with the family I’ve made, minutes away from the farm I grew up on, hills still rising all around me. I’ve found the kind of success my mother has, the kind that comes with choosing your own path and learning from the obstacles along the way. Someday my daughter will be old enough to decide what success means to her. If she comes to me for advice, I’ll tell her there’s bound to be hardship, no matter what direction she chooses in life. And those struggles will strengthen her, making her more who she’ll be.

“I Always Knew I Would Adopt”by Cat Greenleaf

This is really a story in three parts: my choice, my husband’s choice and the results of our decisions.

My choice: I clearly remember lying on my parents’ bed in Westchester, New York, chatting on the phone with my grandfather when I was five years old. What’s not clear is why he chose that moment to explain that the only difference between my sister, who is adopted, and me, is who gave birth to us. I hung up the phone thinking that adoption is how families are built, so that is how I’d be building mine. It wasn’t so much a cerebral knowledge as an understanding in my gut.

My husband’s choice: On our second date, I told Mike I had always planned to adopt, and that if he wasn’t into it, we should probably just get the check. That was a risky move for a girl who hadn’t had a date in a year. We got another glass of wine, we got married, we got a house and we got to talking about kids again. We were 35, and Mike was surprised when I said we should start the adoption process. Clearly, he hadn’t totally internalized what I said on date number two. He blames the wine. But he agreed to take on the self-exploration: Did he want to be a father to a child of his own genes, or just to be a father? A social worker asked him about the children he knew and if he’d jump in front of a bus for them. He said he would for his nieces and nephew. Imagine, she said, how you’ll feel when a child is your own, adopted or not.

Since it had never been a question for me, I had no decision to make, but I did have a compromise I could offer: If he still felt the need to have a biological child after we adopted our first, then we’d try to get pregnant. That offer still stands, but I know it will never, ever be cashed in. We met our birth mother two years ago on a Yahoo adoption group. She had posted her situation in early December, and we responded with two pages’ worth of stories and photos describing who we are. We’d replied to postings before and nothing had worked out, so we didn’t have high hopes. But on Christmas Eve we got her call—she’d chosen us out of 60 families. I was in the room when our son was born, and when I saw his head come out, I recognized him immediately: Of course it’s you, I thought.

I’ve been to countless baby showers, watched my sister give birth and comforted friend after friend as they endured the trials of IVF to get pregnant. I keep wondering whether I’m going to feel a stir in my body, a pang to be pregnant, any urge at all. I feel nothing of the sort. I’ve wondered whether there’s something off in my physiology, perhaps a maternal gene missing. Then I look at my son, and all the body-aching, soul-stretching love comes rushing in, and I know there’s nothing off. For me, adoption is just how families are built.

Cat Greenleaf is the host of Talk Stoop on NBC New York.

Above: Greenleaf at home with her son, Nicholas. (Photo: Daniel D’Errico)

Joiner: childless and happy.

“I Don’t Want Kids, Ever”by Whitney Joiner

Just a few of the things that are said about those of us who are opting out of the whole baby thing:

We’re selfish.

We hate children.

We’re missing out on the joys of life.

We’ll grow old alone, with lots of cats.

We’ll change our minds.

I get that all the time: “You still don’t want kids?” Or as a friend said to me recently, “You’re 32. I didn’t want kids till I was 35. That could happen to you!” Let me be clear: It won’t. Being a mom sounds as foreign to me as being a neuroscientist. Even as a girl, I didn’t imagine a future filled with strollers and science fairs. The life that sounded exciting to me? One in which I’d be able to take on all-consuming projects or travel for a month at a time.

My own mother may have had something to do with my decision. While she’s always been incredibly loving and supportive, it was clear taking us to piano and soccer wasn’t her favorite activity. Back then, having kids was, as she put it, “what you did.” I once overheard her talking about a couple she knew. “They can go to Greece for a month,” she said. “They don’t have kids.” I felt like I was looking at two paths: On one, I’d be trapped; on another, I’d be on the Mediterranean.

I talked to my mom about all of this recently. “You’ll never have a conversation with your daughter like the one we’re having, and that makes me sad,” she said. I get what she means, but it doesn’t seem sad to me. My life isn’t perfect (whose is?), but for me, it comes close: I have an engrossing job; I split my time between New York City and a small Texas desert town; and I can make decisions without worrying about whether they’ll impact my child’s college fund. This is the life I want.

“I Have Six Kids, but Don’t Call Me a Breeder”by Shaina Peterson, as told to Liz Welch

When I tell people I have six children and another due in August, the first thing they ask is “How can you afford it?” But to us, it’s more important to have kids with good manners, great minds and big hearts than the latest sneakers, cell phone or video game. My husband and I come from big families—there were 10 kids in the house where I grew up—and you always felt like there was somewhere you belonged. In my home now, it’s like the Duggars on 19 Kids & Counting: The older siblings look out for the younger ones.

Of course, kids can be expensive: We moved from New York, where I’m from, to North Carolina four years ago because we needed more (affordable) space. The South is more accommodating to large families. Here, I’ve been commended for having six kids; some women even tell me they regret not having more children.

But we’ve also heard: “You guys need to get cable!”—as if all we do is have sex and make babies. Worse, I’ve had people say: “Are you going to keep the baby?” Well, we are a Christian family. (My husband likes to joke that the Lord says be fruitful; we’re just being obedient.) To the question “When will you quit?”: I don’t know if I can physically handle more pregnancies, but I wouldn’t rule out adoption. I’m proud to have kids who respect and support each other. When my four-year-old sounds out a new word, there are high fives around the dinner table. The world could use more encouragement like that.

“I’m Proud to Be a Single Mom”by Michael Owens, as told to Liz Welch

Sure, I would have preferred to have met some guy, gotten married, worn a really cool dress and gotten pregnant on my honeymoon. But dating wasn’t getting me even close to that fairy tale. I was 30 when I first considered single motherhood. My mom raised me on her own, and I never felt that being the child of one parent was a handicap; I loved having her all to myself. Plus, I had friends who didn’t get married until they were almost 40 and then spent $50,000 at fertility clinics trying, unsuccessfully, to get pregnant. I didn’t want that.

I spent a year getting ready. At the clinic, I learned I had “social infertility,” the diagnosis they give single women and lesbians who want children. I had my first intrauterine insemination when I was 32; I got pregnant the next month, on the second try. People have assumed I’m divorced or got pregnant in a relationship that didn’t work out. Friends have even said, “Why didn’t you wait until you met someone? You’re so young!” This stuns me; people don’t realize that women’s fertility drops like a stone in water at 35. When women put off motherhood, waiting for the perfect circumstance or the right guy to come along, they’re taking a huge risk. They may look great, but Oil of Olay doesn’t reach the fallopian tubes.

My daughter is now three. Sometimes she’ll ask, “Do I have a dad?” and I say, “No, sweetie. You have a grandma, a mommy and five dogs.” And one day, she may have a sibling; I have four vials of my donor’s sperm at the bank. So far, I’m the only one in my circle to have gone down this road, but at least my friends consider it an empowering possibility. People often see a single mother and think, Failure. I correct them immediately: This is my biggest success.

“I’ll Do Anything to Have a Baby”by Andrea Buchanan

There’s a weird phenomenon that happens when you are trying to get pregnant but can’t: Everyone around you is either suddenly pushing a stroller or placing a hand on her nine-months-preggers belly.

After five years of disappointment, my husband, Jason, and I did what many couples do: We went into debt for very expensive IVF treatments. We gathered fertility totems for our house (one in every room), and I drove 60 miles to a Mexican witch doctor who massaged my uterus and told me my feet were too cold to conceive. I’m wearing socks right now.

We’ve done it all, but nothing’s worked. And yet I still want a baby, more than ever. In fact, I want to be a mother so badly that I’m willing to roll the dice on a way to make it happen.

To make certain that something works out, and soon, we’re pursuing IVF with an egg donor…and adoption at the same time. “But you might end up with two infants at once!” people gasp. We realize this—happily. After waiting this long, I’m OK with
an insta-brood.

Some people in my life, however, have had issues with our plan. Recently I got a phone message from a friend expressing her deep concern over our adopting through the foster system. She used the full three minutes after the beep to lay out every hideous scenario that could go wrong: kids with mental issues; kids born with fetal alcohol syndrome. I was stunned. Knowing what Jason and I are going through to have a baby, how could she try to persuade us not to connect with one in need? I waited two weeks to call her back—until I could calm down and not say something I might regret.

I know that her call came from a place of love and concern, but I can’t think of a more intimate, personal decision than how and when to build a family. Why is it that everyone always thinks they know what’s best for everyone else?

Thankfully, the bonds between my friends and I have been strengthened through all this. Just before Thanksgiving, Jason and I got word that we could be the new adoptive parents of a baby boy in a matter of days. I didn’t have a thing that resembled a onesie, a crib or a baby bottle in the house. But I did have an army of friends who are mothers who offered to bring over everything we would need if we got to bring home a baby. They’ve told me you don’t need much at first: just loving arms, food and diapers.

When we got the news that the adoption fell through—our lives apparently seemed “too fast” for the birth mother—Jason said to me, “Fast or slow, our baby is coming.” This may not have been our master plan for building a family (this plan is a lot less fun and a lot more expensive), but Jason and I have fully embraced it. We’re back in line with the other people waiting to adopt, and at the same time we’ve chosen our donor: She’s tall, like me, and artistic, and, most important, she’s 24, with lots of viable eggs! One thing I’ve learned through this whole process is that there is something else you need before becoming a mom: a tribe to support you no matter how and when that baby arrives.